Of Dean and Donut Holes
by one-red-sock
Summary: Lisa makes Dean an offer he can't refuse, and outs herself: she wants to see more of him. Part of my Lisa'verse, wherein she loves Dean's belly and you know what they say... bigger is better. ;)


Dean can't decide which varieties to buy and daaaayum, looking at the amazing spread at Schneider's is an exercise in indecision, so he buys a sample of almost every donut in the whole bakery. Hey, they have a teenager in the house; food never goes to waste. Not to mention, Dean knows he can polish off a morsel or five if left to his own devices. The ones slicked in white frosting with little maraschino cherry halves dotted on top remind him of Lisa.

Something about it feels very, _very_ good: knowing he doesn't have to run for his fucking life at a moment's notice and can just slow the fuck down. Water the lawn with a beer in his hand. Get fat if he wants. Not constantly keeping half an eye out for –

But he stops himself there. This is the one thing that hangs over his head like the sword of Damocles. Hey, Dean knows his Greek legends, and the reason for this is . . . Sam.

Sam is the piece of the puzzle, missing. Sam, the one who jumped. The boy with the demon blood who saved all of humanity so that Dean could be standing in a parking lot, mindlessly eating donut holes.

Sam, whom Dean misses with every breath he draws.

He blinks and dusts his fingers off on his new jeans.

But this is what Sam wants. He wants Dean to be safe and boring, and at first it was hell. Of course it was hell. You don't just forget a lifetime of trauma seamlessly.

Sam knew Lisa would be the key, the one person who could keep Dean's head above water, his lifeline as the ship was sinking. And he was right. Still is right.

Dean looks into the huge bag of doughy nuggets and smiles ruefully. Sam would _not_ like the donut holes, but he would like that Dean likes them.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean says softly, popping a last bit into his mouth before wadding the bag closed and setting it on the passenger-side seat with the rest of the pastries. Yeah, he misses his brother, but Sam wants him to live. So he does.

By the time he gets back home, Ben is at the table eating a bowl of cereal.

"Donuts," Dean announces, taking a small box from the stack and plopping it down in front of Ben. Ben likes bearclaws.

"Dude, thanks!" Ben says, grinning. "Hey, I'm goin' over to Connor's house to practice, okay?"

"Connor with a 'c'?" Because Ben also knows a Konnor with a 'k'. Dumb way to spell the name, but hey, Dean isn't responsible for _that_ dorkiness.

Ben nods and Dean knocks him in the shoulder. "Get back before lunch and don't be a douche bag to his parents."

"I won't. Jeeze," Ben says with an eye roll.

Dean gives him an insincere glare that they both know is bullshit and takes the rest of the baked goods upstairs. To Ben's credit, he doesn't even raise an eyebrow.

When Dean opens the bedroom door, the bed is empty.

"Lis?"

He snicks the door closed behind.

Lisa, all silky-voiced and fetching, steps from the bathroom. Naked. "Took you long enough."

Dean finds himself frozen for a moment, staring, drinking in everything about her. But only for a moment.

"Jesus fucking Christ, you're beautiful." He drops the pastries onto the bed and can't get to her fast enough.

He scoops her up – his hands cupping her ass, her legs wrapping around his waist – and they smash together in a hard kiss. He walks to the bed, twined with her, and they plop back, the bed bouncing and creaking under their weight.

They break for him to yank his t-shirt overhead and she paws at his fly, kissing at his middle as she slithers his brand spanking new jeans down to his ankles.

He's already half-hard and his dick bounces when he pulls off his briefs.

Lisa relaxes back on the mattress, sloe-eyed and languid. Dean is shoving the pastry containers to the floor when she stops him. "Wait. I was serious."

This gives him pause and he's not quite sure what she's talking about. Until her gaze darts to the donuts.

"Line 'em up, baby," she says, one finger trailing over the hang of his belly.

Far be it from Dean to deny her.

He starts with the donut holes, setting the sticky things in a column from the divot at the base of her throat to the tender dip of her navel. "Now, no hands," she insists, her hair a blackbird's wing across the white of the sheets.

"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, eager to comply. Her skin is warm under his lips as he bites one chunk of donut, then a second and a third, pausing to chew. Lisa's hands palm over his stomach, squeezing the meat of his flanks and she squirms, so agile, arching just a touch but not enough to dislodge the trail of treats.

"Hey, I thought you said 'no hands'?" Dean swallows to speak.

Before he can complain twice, she pops another donut hole into his mouth. "I'm giving the orders around here, mister."

"Alrighty, then," he mumbles around the mouthful. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

He plucks each morsel, in turn, from her body, eyeing the tangle of dark at her crotch hungrily, but Lisa has other plans.

She coaxes him onto his back so that they've switched places, settling comfortably over his thighs, and selects a fancy donut from the box by her side. With one pinky delicately hoisted, she feeds him bite after bite, pausing just long enough for him to chew and swallow. By the time they're on the third donut, he realizes she's begun subtly grinding onto his dick, slick and controlled. It's incredible and he aches in such a good way, he can't complain when she goes for donut number four and five.

The sweet makes his teeth twinge, and at the sixth pastry, he can't help but groan in complaint.

"Okay, baby, just finish this last one," she breathes as she bends over his mound of belly, her breasts within tasting range if not for the donut in the way. When she's stuffed the last bit into his mouth, she lifts up just enough to slide him inside. She's hot and tight, and Dean lets his eyes flutter closed, lost in the sugar and his urges. He's only fleetingly baffled by the feeding thing but decides, rather effortlessly in fact, that he likes it. Likes it lots.

Lisa rides him hard, her breasts smashing across the fullness in his stomach, her hair catching in his stubble. They're both sweating and gasping and coming, the bed walloping against the wall as what's left of the bakery boxes spill onto the floor.

God help them if Ben is within earshot.

~o~O~o~

Lisa nudges Dean awake. He must've dozed off, post-happytimes. How he managed with all that sugar in his system is no small wonder. Guess there's something to be said for food comas, after all.

"Come 'ere," she whispers, tugging at his elbow.

"Whuh?"

"Humor me."

Dean cracks open an eye and she's standing in the middle of the room. Still naked. Still gorgeous. Pointing a finger at something on the floor. He rolls, with some effort, onto his side, stomach stuffed and ungainly-feeling.

"I just wanna see something," she insists.

Once his brain is firing on at least half its cylinders, he discovers that she's pointing at their old bathroom scale. To be honest, he never knew what he weighed before. It was never an issue, and not something they kept in the trunk of the Impala.

He drags himself upright, vaguely groggy but thoroughly content. Okay, he has to admit to being just a little curious. He gives a good stretch, spine popping, and rocks to his feet.

When he steps on the scale, the little dial whooshes mechanically. It's not one of those digital models, but the old-school variety with actual moving parts. He looks down and sees –

Belly. Just the round, massive swell of his gut. He's even too full to suck it in, but he suspects no amount of inhaling would provide enough leeway anyhow. He grins sheepishly at Lisa.

And she grins back. With one hand on his middle, she crouches down to take a peek at the number. She gives a low whistle. "You sure you wanna know?"

He shrugs. "I ain't afraid of no number." He shimmies his middle back and forth under her palm.

"Oh, hold still, you." When the scale stops whirring again, she stands back up.

"And?" Dean arches a brow.

"Guess."

Infuriating woman. "Mmm. 220." That's what Sam was the last time they had to make a stop at the emergency room. Now, granted, this was years ago and Sam was a good four inches taller . . .

"Higher."

"230."

"Nope. More."

"What?"

Lisa jerks a thumb upwards.

"240?" Dean says, a little stunned.

"Close."

"Alright; I give."

She leans forward and drapes herself over him. "256."

Dean's about to swear when she covers his mouth with a kiss. He steps off the scale to widen his stance and get a casual handful of her ass.

After a long, tasty moment, she pulls away, smiles up at him and rests her chin on his chest, fingers lightly playing across his considerable paunch. "And don't you ever think of changing."


End file.
